


noctiluca

by ryozumi



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Umibe no Étranger AU, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryozumi/pseuds/ryozumi
Summary: Ryuunosuke’s forgotten what used to make the sea so captivating.It’s wide. Deep. Blue. But the same could be said of the ice cream freezer at the corner mart, after all, and there’s not much intrigue to be found in that.Its beauty probably lay elsewhere, but for now it might be much more interesting to drown himself in the sea’s depths than waste the rest of his life trying to recall why people are always so enamored with the surface.If he did, he has a feeling he wouldn’t be the last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kusemono (Glitchgoat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitchgoat/gifts).



A sharp wind bites against the uncovered parts of Ryuu’s face, crudely snapping him back into a reality where the only actual mystery is where the familiar smell of freshly baked bread is coming from. Another breeze sends an instinctive shiver down his spine. He draws his scarf up until it covers his nose, quickly tightening it to create a heat storage space. The muggy warmth of his heated breaths makes the skin on his nose tingle; the sensation of blood flowing combined with the clarity of the stars in the dark sky above roughly indicate how long he’s sat on his usual wooden bench, overlooking the Okinawan beach.

Only now do the shadows begin to stretch. _Not long enough_.

“It’s about time to head back…” A sigh barely heard above the wind escapes him as he rubs his hands together, fingertips red from the cold air. Both feet are planted firmly on the ground as heaves his body up and gives the sea ahead one last apprehensive look for the night.

Half a second later, he’s acutely aware of a set of eyes on his back, but the feeling isn’t unwelcome or uncomfortable—it’s more reassuring than anything else.

Ryuu doesn’t bother to look. He knows what he’ll see if he meets the eyes trained on him, he’s seen them dozens of times by now. Tonight, he’s a little too tired and the stars are shining a little too brightly for him to bear staring directly at anything that comes close to rivaling their brilliance.

Including, no, _especially_ , the gaze glued to him. He stuffs his cold hands into either jacket pocket as he moves one foot in front of the other, away from the uninteresting expanse of water—completely ignoring the two green eyes following his slouched form—and walks until he’s gone far enough to melt into the night.

 

 #

 

_He must be freezing_ , Yamato muses to himself as he lazily observes the stranger who has seemingly taken up residence on the bench located just across the street, overlooking the seaside beach.

Yamato clutches the broom in his hand tightly, pushing it into the ground as he leans down to place his chin on the end of it and frown down at the mess around his feet. The wind’s picking up now, carelessly ruining all of his hard work by stirring up the leaves he’d painstakingly swept out of the path. If he’d known he would’ve spent over an hour out here for nothing he’d never have bothered in the first place.

Okay, if he’s being honest, that’s a lie. There’s much more to do out here than sweep leaves, but it did make for a convenient excuse to be outside on such a cold night.

From his vantage point at the top of the stairs leading to the shop behind him—which isn’t much of a vantage point, he’s not on a very steep incline at all—he distinguishes a shiver beneath the man’s coat, and then another, and stillness again. His hair remains wildly blown about his head, but the man makes no move to fix it or warm himself up, much less seek shelter from the breeze elsewhere, almost as though willingly leaving his body susceptible to the world while his mind drifts elsewhere for hours on end.

Ever since he became aware of him, nearly every day around three o’clock for the past couple of months, Yamato’s found some excuse to wander away from the shop (much to its owners’ displeasure) just for _this_ _—_ the sight of a lone stranger by the sea.

Yamato’s not entirely sure when he actually began frequenting the bench; he simply appeared one day, glow of the sunset casting a halo around his solitary form. Not once has Yamato ever approached him to ask.

He thinks about shouting across the road at the stranger. He’s not sure what he would say if he could, probably ask him if he’s hungry or cold or maybe even a simple hello, even though he knows there’s no point because A) the guy would never hear his voice from all the way over here and B) Yamato’s seen his face before and is about as certain that the earth is round as he is that he’d have a heart attack if the guy so much as locked eyes with him. Something about the otherworldly aura, gentle amber eyes and large, obviously well-built frame made the mere concept of words impossible.

His train of thought gradually returns to how long the guy’s actually been out there. Months? Years? Every day, gazing out at the sea like a prisoner trapped on land.

Every day, as distant from the world as the sky is from the stars.

This time, Yamato shivers. The night air’s gone cold. Yamato really wishes the stranger would go home, so Yamato could too without feeling like he’s leaving him to suffer alone.

_Home, huh._

For the first time, the thought occurs to Yamato.

Maybe, the stranger doesn’t have a home at all.

 

#

 

“Hey, Mitsu, do you know the name of the guy that’s always sitting outside on the bench?”

“Nope,” comes Mitsuki’s quick response, to which Yamato hums, feigning nonchalance while internally feeling rather disappointed by the lack of information. He’s sure nothing about it sounds out of the ordinary, yet Mitsuki pauses in his yard work to consider him carefully.

Yamato unconsciously grips the spray bottle in his hand tighter, fidgets under the intensity of Mitsuki’s stare. There’s nothing particularly intimidating about his friend or the intensity of his gaze; rather, Yamato’s all too aware of the potency of Mitsuki’s perceptiveness to the emotions of other people and how greatly it outclasses his ability to hide his own emotions. “Did you want to find out his name that badly?”

The bottle nearly tumbles to the ground. Miraculously, Yamato manages some kind of juggling to keep it in his grasp while simultaneously not setting himself ablaze with embarrassment. “N-No, that’s— Well, I—was just thinking—”

“That you wanted to put a name to his cute face,” supplies a very unhelpful and disturbingly accurate Iori from the other side of the garden. The boy’s blatant assertion brings heat to Yamato’s cheeks instantly, his own reaction so foreign Yamato doesn't know how to play it off.

“Oh,” Mitsuki breathes slowly, the lilt in his high voice indicating his interest is piqued. “You’re crushing on him, Yamato-san? Now that I think about it, haven't I caught you staring in that direction while you’re up there fixing the roof? That’s dangerous, y’know. Getting too distracted by pretty boys to work properly is a tough habit to break.”

Red rapidly creeps up to his ears and down his neck when Iori interrupts his flustered train of thought again, this time with a much more helpful piece of information. He’s spared from Mitsuki’s teasing for now. “His name is Tsunashi Ryuunosuke,” the youngest offers simply. Then, after a pause, “He used to visit our shop with his family quite often.”

Two sets of eyes widen simultaneously. “You remember him, Iori?” Mitsuki asks with wonder, obviously impressed; Yamato’s too busy struggling between satisfaction at finally knowing _something_ and puzzling out the complicated look on Iori’s face to respond.

“He’s a local, so of course I remember him. I’m actually surprised you don't, Nii-san.”

Mitsuki’s cheeks flare up with heat. He insists indignantly, “I-I’m sure if I saw his face, I’d remember him instantly!”

“Yes, I’m sure you would.” Amusement dances in Iori’s dark eyes even as he focuses his attention back on tending to the herbs, affection for his brother displayed clearly in the soft set of his smile.

The words themselves sound like a vote of confidence in Mitsuki’s favor, but the placating tone leads the man to pout (rather cutely, if he had to say) at his younger brother.

As angry puffs of air rise from Mitsuki’s fuming form, Yamato’s mouth moves to form words on its own. “‘Used to,’ huh.”

Something about his voice has Mitsuki, and now Iori, pausing where they stand. “Nikaido-san?” Iori ventures after a moment. Mitsuki’s watching him silently, gloved fingers tapping the spade in his hand as though waiting, and it's somehow more disturbing than the amount of concern Iori’s showing. “Is something the matter?”

“Ah, nothing. Talking to myself. Sorry, Mitsu, Ichi, I think I’ll go work on the roof a bit more before it gets dark. No staring at pretty boys, I promise.”

While Mitsuki doesn't seem satisfied by his answer, and Iori looks like he could be far less interested, Yamato’s reluctant to put more thought into the matter; he’d much rather retreat to a place where he can lose himself in his work.

Yamato climbs his way onto the roof. As fate would have it, the man in question— _Tsunashi Ryuunosuke_ —occupies the bench yet again.

Brown hair tousled from the wind and a broad back are all that’s visible to him from here. Part of Yamato is waiting for that back to turn, so he can meet that somber amber gaze of his and get a direct look at what’s captured inside. Another part is sure he’ll explode on sight if he does. And the last part, the most dangerous, the part he’s least keen to admit exists at all, desperately yearns for a smile to grace those strangely sensual yet undoubtedly kind lips just once.

As it turns out, there's actually no point in avoiding thoughts about the tidbit he’d gotten from Iori, because they're flooding in whether he likes it or not.

If he had a family, he more than likely had a home. Relief floods through him, short-lived but strong.

He may be overthinking it, but part of him is certain there’s more meaning behind Iori’s usage of the past tense.

Growing up surrounded by them meant Yamato’s become accustomed to the whims of rich city people and how easily they flit about from trend to trend, so he’s sure the opposite must be true of locals in Okinawa despite the fact he’s only lived here for such a small number of years: they don’t tire of frequenting local hangouts easily, much less of visiting them altogether.

Maybe he and his family had a reason for stopping their visits to the Izumi family shop. There were any possible number of explanations, none of them particularly pleasant to consider.

And when it occurs to Yamato that it could be a reason similar to his for coming here in the first place, he stops considering them at all.

The sight of Ryuunosuke’s back, framed by the reddish glow of the sun dipping low across the horizon ahead, only seems to grow lonelier after his realization.

Maybe family issues are best kept private.

 

#

 

Yamato learns two things very quickly when he decides (against admittedly better judgement) to wait for Ryuunosuke on the bench the next day.

One: the bench is a lot harder than it looks. How Ryuunosuke spends hour after hour sitting on it, Yamato will never understand.

Two: Ryuunosuke is a _lot_ taller than he originally guessed, and infinitely more handsome up close than Yamato imagined in his wildest dreams.

Of course, it could simply be the way Ryuunosuke glances at him as he advances, thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion, amber eyes wide with—unless he’s mistaken—the kind of surprise one feels when encountering an unexpected but familiar face, that sends his heart into a wildly beating frenzy.

Either way, Yamato’s breath is caught in his throat and speaking feels impossible and _wow_ , he’s really, _really_ big.

He’s also walking straight past the bench.

An image of Yamato’s confidence in shambles flashes across his mind’s eye, the relative horror of it tearing a greeting from his throat so forcibly it leaves his voice absolutely raw.

“G-Good morning.” He flinches at the pitiful sound, tries to cover it up with a smile and a wave, but his lips tremble from the effort it takes to spread them so wide and all he wants to do is wither away then and there.

Ryuunosuke’s startles when called out to. Their eyes meet and Ryuunosuke offers him a courteous smile. The man inclines his head in a polite nod, returns a short “good morning” and continues on his way, completely dashing Yamato’s hopes of striking up a conversation.

Disappointment settles deep and unbidden in the pit of Yamato’s stomach as Ryuunosuke’s figure shrinks in the distance. Once the stranger fades from sight, Yamato picks up the bagged bottle of alcohol from the bench and dangles it from the tips of his fingertips, its physical weight seemingly nonexistent compared to the weight of his failed encounter on his mind.

 

_#_

 

_A bottle of_ awamori _? You were going to give him that like a schoolgirl waiting behind the storage shed with chocolates to up her chances of successfully confessing her love?_ Mitsuki had howled with laughter across the dinner table later that night following Yamato’s disparate recounting of the incident. Heat blazes a trail over his face, ears and neck just _remembering_ the embarrassment he’d felt at the painfully accurate comparison; he curses Mitsuki internally, dragging a hand down over his warm face, vowing revenge on the older Izumi brother.

_So what? Try again_ , had been Iori’s disturbingly casual response, his hands never once faltering as he’d simultaneously prepared their dinner. _You managed to greet him. That should be satisfactory enough in the case of two people who are still strangers to one another. You’re a fool for taking a simple interaction like that to heart._

Yamato revises his vow to include revenge on both brothers.

And yet here he is, waiting at the bottom of the stairs with the bottle of alcohol in one hand and an additional bag of Mitsuki’s handmade pastries inside held in the other. Ryuunosuke’s standing in front of the bench, his usual blue scarf fluttering lightly in the wind as he gazes out at the sea one last time for the night.

His silhouette alone is remarkable, Yamato thinks: captivating, the way the dark sea ahead and stars in the sky frame him contrasting against the overhead glow of the street lamp, like a key visual from a melancholic film. The effect remains even when he turns and begins making his way across the street.

Yamato barely manages to wrest himself from his imagination in time to thrust the two bags in front of Ryuunosuke just as he's about to pass.

He freezes, surprised to encounter someone so late at night.

Yamato empties his mind of all thoughts and intentions, finding it much easier to let instinct take the reigns than speak consciously and make a fool of himself like he did that morning. “Take it. You must be hungry.”

Ryuunosuke stares at Yamato, then at the contents in his hands, then at Yamato again. “I actually already ate…” he trails off, eyes darting down to his hands again and widening. His voice is hardly above a whisper. “Awamori? ...Is this really okay for me to take?”

He hums in lieu of an affirmation and thrusts the bottle closer to Ryuunosuke, who despite his hesitation takes it and the bag of sweets into his own hands carefully.

After a moment of studying it, his eyes rise to meet Yamato’s. The amber color softens into a warm honey. Yamato swallows, feeling his heart melt helplessly. “Thank you.”

Heartfelt and gentle, the gratitude Yamato hears from that one word wraps around him like a warm embrace. Unique, powerful, overwhelming; there are any number of adjectives to describe the tone of Tsunashi Ryuunosuke’s low, silky voice, but none of them summarize it as well as the word _kind_.

 

 #

 

“Nikaido-san, you have a gift.”

“Oh?” Yamato hums appreciatively at the pack of beer Iori holds out to him with a vaguely disgusted expression. “Ichi, you shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t. It’s from Tsunashi-san.”

Yamato nearly drops the pack as it’s handed off to him.

Iori chuckles lightly, settling into the chair next to Yamato at the table. “I never knew you were such a romantic. Is this what schoolgirls in love are like?”

“No comment,” Yamato grumbles, unamused.

“Speaking of comments, I talked with Tsunashi-san when he dropped it off.” Iori pauses, waiting, but Yamato’s met his quota for self-incriminating reactions for the day and offers no more than a relaxed nod to indicate his interest. Iori sighs. “He told me his father used to enjoy the drink, but even that lost its appeal since he and Tsunashi-san’s mother divorced.”

The cans of beer clink loudly against the tabletop. “Divorced?”

“That’s right. In my memories, their family always came into the shop together, so I had no idea until just now. It seemed he’d forgotten about the awamori until you gave him the bottle. ‘He’s become a bit more depressed recently, so I hope I can drink this together with him and lift his spirits,’ he said. He appeared wistful, but very inspired.”

_Ah._ _So that’s how it is_ , Yamato realizes, his speculations from only nights before churning again in his head.

It isn’t that he doesn't want to go home, or that he doesn’t have a home at all.

Maybe he's lost, because the place he used to return to has lost what made it a home.

 

#

 

“Good afternoon.”

A long shadow falls over Yamato, startling him out of the sleepy stupor he’d fallen into despite the harsh wood beneath him. His eyes follow a path from a pair of shoes up, over slacks and a rather dressy coat to Ryuunosuke’s smiling face.

_Oh god_ , he groans internally, _I can’t tell which is more blinding. The sun behind him or his smile._

“Do you mind if I sit?” he probes, gesturing to the space beside Yamato, who can only nod and scoot over.

Silence sits between them for several minutes as Ryuunosuke relaxes into the bench while Yamato steeples his fingers in his lap, debating whether or not to verbalize the thoughts he’s mulled over since Iori relayed his conversation with Ryuunosuke to him.

He eyes Ryuunosuke from the side. His brown hair is gelled back today. Yamato guesses he must have had some kind of formal event to deal with, especially considering the clothes. They fit him too well. How is it even _possible_ for such muscular thighs to be so clearly defined underneath a pair of slacks—

The distinct feeling of eyes on him sends chills down Yamato’s spine.

Ryuunosuke’s staring back, openly at that, concern knitting his eyebrows together. Yamato swallows thickly, flicking his eyes away a few beats too late to pretend he hadn’t been caught staring.

In a rather desperate attempt to distract Ryuunosuke before he can say anything about that fact, he thrusts his chin in the direction of the sea. “You spend a lot of time out here.”

A small noise of acknowledgement.

“What are you always looking at?”

“...I’m not too sure, myself.”

“Even though you’re out here all day?”

Finally, Ryuunosuke’s eyes follow his line of sight, relieving Yamato of the intense pressure of his stare. “It’s a good place to think.”

Yamato rakes in a deep breath, resisting the urge to look at him again. “Don’t you get lonely, spending all this time out here by yourself?”

His reply is so immediate, so straightforward, so easy it sends that deep breath rushing right back out of Yamato's lungs. “No. After all, you’re always out here with me, Yamato-kun.”

“You...know my name?”

“Of course. You know mine too, don’t you?” Ryuunosuke meets his shocked gaze with a warm smile. “Was there something else you wanted to ask?”

He flinches, the force of it ripping his eyes away and back to the sea. “No. Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“Did I look lonely to you?”

“Sorry,” Yamato repeats, the light reflecting off of the water burning his eyes through his glasses. “That was rude of me to ask.”

“It’s okay. I used to always have my family around me, so everyone else says the same.”

“That’s not why,” he mumbles, speaking slowly, gripping his hands together tighter, barely registering his own words over the sound of blood rushing through his head. “It’s because every time I see you sitting here, you’re looking out at the sea like you’re waiting for something to come and whisk you away.”

He waits, and waits, even after several minutes pass, until finally he dares to sneak a glimpse of Ryuunosuke. The expression on his face is complicated, almost troubled; such a dark look on the other man’s face sends Yamato nearly flying off the bench.

“I just remembered, Mitsu asked me to go shopping. I should probably get going. Sorry for bothering you today, Tsunashi-san—”

Something warm and calloused encircles Yamato’s wrist as he begins his hasty retreat and tugs so hard his entire body spins around. Ryuunosuke’s face is suddenly right there in front of his, mere inches away, and he belatedly realizes Ryuunosuke’s hand is on his wrist.

“Let me go with you.”

Yamato’s world tilts dangerously.

Ryuunosuke drags him away before it occurs to Yamato to refuse, hand still wrapped around Yamato’s wrist.

Not that he would refuse, not that he’d ever dream of it.

 

 #

 

“You’re _late_ , ossan! Do you know how hungry we are?!”

“ _Ow!_ That hurt, Mitsu! I get it, I get it, I’m sorry! I won’t ever be late again!”

“Nii-san, wait, don’t be so violent with him.”

“Ichi…! I never thought I'd see you come to my rescue—”

“It's like training a puppy. You have to be firm, but gentle, if you want it to learn.”

“ _Ichi?!_ "

Light, playful banter echoes through the house. Through the windows, the setting sun casts shadows across the room while casting an orange glow over everything else, including the three currently arguing over Yamato’s tardiness. A smile spreads across Ryuu’s face before he’s even conscious of it.

It’s like watching his younger brothers mess around. Nostalgia squeezes his heart, but affection softens the sharp feeling.

“I’ll be leaving now,” he whispers into the air, to no one in particular, setting down the bags in his hands and heading straight for the doorway, anticipating a quiet exit from the lively scene.

“Huh? You’re staying for lunch,” the older Izumi brother, Mitsuki, asserts matter-of-factly and fixes Ryuu with such a strong-willed look he has to quell the urge to plant himself in the ground.

At his side, Yamato continues struggling to escape the arm around his neck in a death grip. “Escape—while you still can, Tsunashi-san—!”

Iori sighs, ignoring the dramatic scene and approaching Ryuu instead. “Please excuse them. They’re always like this. If you follow me, I’ll show you to the kitchen so you can set those down.”

On their way, they pass Mitsuki and Yamato, who are still wrestling playfully. A cheeky grin lights up Mitsuki’s face as he musses Yamato hair, not a trace of malice in sight.

Yamato’s grumbling some kind of complaint, but he’s angling his head away from Mitsuki, hiding a small smile and completely oblivious to Ryuu’s eyes studying him.

Ryuu’s never seen Yamato smile before. He finds himself rather fond of it.

“Tsunashi-san?”

“Ah, sorry, Iori-kun. I’m right behind you.”

He continues trailing Iori to the kitchen, leaving the sound of Mitsuki’s loud laughter and Yamato’s half-hearted complaints behind.

 

 #

 

“Sorry we kept you so late…” Yamato laments as the two stride side by side under the starry sky, absently wandering the abandoned streets.

“No worries.” A smile flashes across Ryuu’s face. “I had fun. It’s been a while since I had such a lively meal.”

A hefty sigh escapes Yamato’s lungs. “Mitsu went overboard with the teasing, but well, I’m glad you had a good time, Tsu—Ryuu-san.”

Ryuu laughs. The melodic chime of it is music to Yamato’s ears. “The two of them got along well as kids. I’m happy to see that hasn’t changed.”

“They’ve been like that as long as I’ve known them, too.”

“Iori said you came to the island a few years ago?”

“Yeah. I...needed a vacation.”

“It’s turned into quite an extended stay. Did you like it that much?”

“...Yeah.”

"I see."

Several minutes pass in comfortable silence. They’ve just passed the convenience store on the corner street when Ryuu hesitantly speaks up.

“Yamato-kun?”

“Hm?”

“Do you mind if we head somewhere? It’s a bit of a walk from here, but it’s something I’d like to show you.”

Yamato nods and answers without thinking. “I’ll let you take me anywhere, Tsunashi-san.”

A light blush colors his cheeks as Yamato’s words gradually sink in. “Th-this way, then,” Ryuu points, walking ahead quickly before either of them has a chance to be truly embarrassed about it.

_Too late for that_ , Yamato thinks as blood rushes to his cheeks, but he’s grateful for Ryuu’s consideration nonetheless.

Time flies as they chat about nothing in particular. Ryuu leads him through a worn path up a rather steep hill, the stars above the only source of light, at least until they finally reach the top and Ryuu points to the area below them: the bottom of the cliff, where the sea seems to shine as it crashes into the rock.

“I used to love the sea, but this was always been my favorite place. I actually forgot it even existed until a couple days ago...” he trails off.

Yamato gazes down in curiosity. “How is it shining?” he wonders aloud, eyes fixed on the sparkling water.

“That’s the noctiluca. It’s harmful to the sea creatures, but when my mom brought me here as a kid, I was fascinated by it. It made me want to dive right in and find all the other mysteries the sea held.”

Ryuu breathes deep, as if absorbing the wonder of the phenomenon into his body, and exhales. Tension gradually seeps out of his body until he’s visibly relaxed. Yamato’s eyes naturally gravitate from the waves to Ryuu’s expression. Seeing him so at ease compared to the solitary stranger he’d been accustomed to sends a rush of emotion through Yamato, so overwhelming that his thoughts form on his mouth and spill out on a rush of air before he has a chance to stop them.

The pool of noctiluca sparkles in Ryuu’s eyes like the reflection of a night sky full of stars.

No, that’s not quite right.

_Like sunlight shining on the sea._

The sky is infinite, but there’s always some place on the other side of the sea to land, some unseen depth to reach. Within Ryuu’s eyes lay an alluring invitation to those journeys, but Yamato’s sure if he dives in he won’t ever want it to end.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s yours now, Yamato-kun. I’m leaving for the mainland tomorrow. ”

His thoughts screech to an abrupt halt as Ryuu’s amber eyes calmly observe him. “What?” he says, stupidly, glasses sliding down his nose.

“I have things to do there. For my father, for my younger brothers.”

Yamato lifts his hand to adjust his glasses, but stops halfway and lets it fall limply to his side. “You’re leaving?”

“It was a hard decision to make, but thanks to the bottle of awamori and bag of bread you gave me, I was able to figure things out and talk them through with my dad properly. Thank you, Yamato-kun.”

Ryuu’s face draws close, gradually, unlike the moment back by the bench where he whipped Yamato around at the speed of light. Yamato freezes, unsure of what to anticipate.

Ryuu gently lays a kiss on his cheek. The touch is light, fleeting, and all but forgotten the second Ryuu pulls back and ruffles his hair with an affectionate hand.

“It’d be sad if your only memories with me until now involved that bench, y’know. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but when I get there, I’ll call you. Look forward to it, okay?”

 

#

 

Three years pass in the blink of an eye. Ryuu doesn't call, not once.

Yamato's not sure what to make of that, but time goes on either way, and Yamato has no desire to let himself get caught up in the past any more than he already is.

It's a Sunday in the middle of summer. The weather is hot. The sky is blue. The sea is calm.

The Izumi family's shop is as busy as it gets this time of year, but Mitsuki informed him just last night there would be a newcomer in the shop today.  _Let him shadow you until he gets the hang of things_ , Mitsuki commanded. Yamato's not normally the type of the person to lead someone around all day and tell them what to do, but, well, he feels unsettled by the abundance of normalcy surrounding him lately. He's secretly hoping the stranger will make his days even a little more interesting.

He waits at the break table in the back, idly observing the flow of customers through the staff window. Their faces, their voices, their laughter, all blend together more smoothly than the milkshake Iori serves to the customer in line.

Yamato heaves a sigh just as the bell on the back door chimes, indicating the arrival of the new staff member. He immediately straightens in his seat and raises his head to get a look at their face, figuring he'll give them at least some semblance of professionalism in the beginning.

The sight before him nearly stops his heart.

Brown hair gelled to the side. Sun-kissed skin that glistens in the light. Warm amber eyes that melt like honey when they meet his. A low voice that sends shivers down his spine when he hears it for the first time since that night three years ago when Yamato thought it had vanished from his life for good.

"Yamato-kun."

A smile that rivals the brilliance of the sun.

"I'm home."


	2. Chapter 2

This is not happening. It’s not real.

Yamato is _not_ sitting in the back of the Izumi family bakery, hiding from the customer who’s just hit on him for the third time this week using a pickup line tackier than the paint Yamato had been chipping off the table with his nails.

The couple that lives on the corner house is _not_ walking in through the bakery doors, sending a cheerful greeting to Mitsuki as he dashes behind Iori to grab their usual order.

Mitsuki is _not_ continuing to socialize with them with his usual, easy grin, and Iori is _not_ gently chiding him for getting distracted from the work he should be doing in the back.

And...Ryuu.

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke is _not_ poised before him, smile as warm and kind as the one that night three years ago - his skin is just as tan, he stands just as tall, but his hair is really different and honestly looks unfairly good on him and—and that's _not_ the point god _dammit_.

Yamato is _not_ sitting before him with his jaw stupidly slacked open, too stunned to speak, to think. As he stares, he absorbs every little detail around him that hasn't changed one single bit over the past three years...and the one thing he wishes hadn’t changed at all.

None of this is happening, because if it is—if _this_ is reality—then Yamato is the only one whose world is coming crashing down on top of him. A lot of cruel things have happened to him over the years, so many that he has a mental list of the worst incidents; this time—this reality—might just be cruel enough to make the top five.

Five minutes, five hours, five days, Yamato has no idea which at this point, pass before he gathers enough wits back about himself to function as some semblance of a human being again. He stands slowly.

Almost unwillingly, he sucks in a breath. The air is disgustingly sweet but it's familiar, and that simple fact is the only thing that grounds him in the present. Ryuu's neither moved closer nor stepped back; he seems to be nervously waiting for Yamato to speak. Everything he'd come up with to say to Ryuu if he ever came back flashes through Yamato's mind in a matter of seconds, but none of it was anything he ever thought he'd actually be able to say aloud.

Now, when he's finally granted the chance, he finds there's really only one thing he can do.

He laughs, a short and simple sound that says so much more than words possibly could.

And before Ryuu can ask what that means, Yamato calls out Mitsuki’s name through the open window, impressively maintaining his usual lofty tone.

A tuft of brightly colored hair pops up over the ledge, followed by Mitsuki’s face as he climbs the step they keep for him on the other side. It’d be comical if Yamato weren’t planning to dash out the door and never be heard from again.

“Yamato-san? I thought you fell asleep back there again—Tsunashi-san?” Mitsuki jumps off the step, speeds to the back (Iori calls out a warning against running in the store) and throws the door open, bounding over to where Ryuu and Yamato face each other. “When did you get here? You should have said something!”

Ryuu opens his mouth to explain, but Yamato cuts in before he gets the chance. A single word out of Ryuu’s mouth might crush his last pillar of stability to pieces.

“I’m going home early today.”

A heavy pause follows, during which Mitsuki finally catches onto the tension in the room. To be fair, there’s a lot about the situation between them that’s easy to miss. His eyes dart over to Yamato, brows furrowed with worry. “Didn’t you want to…?” he trails off suggestively.

"No." He isn't sure who Mitsuki's question is directed at, but he replies before Ryuu has the chance to, apparently delivering a swift kick to the other man's gut if his stricken expression is anything to guess by. Yamato doesn’t feel any guilt—he’s not the one that disappeared for three years, after all.

Ryuu left everything behind, so he never had to let go; Yamato, for his part, has gotten pretty good at it since Ryuu left.

“...See you, Mitsu.”

The chair’s legs scrape loudly against the floor as he pushes himself away from the table. Mitsuki winces at the sound. Ryuu’s hand lifts, reaching for Yamato; his fingers—his long, calloused, painfully gentle fingers, the same ones that gripped his wrist so tightly that day on the bench—land somewhere on his upper arm as Yamato passes, each digit every bit as warm as Yamato remembers.

The contact, if it can even be called that, is fleeting; Yamato jerks his arm away without a word. Another pained look flashes across Ryuu’s face.

Guilt remains nowhere to be found, yet deep in Yamato’s heart, regret stabs at him like a knife. Deeper yet, beneath aching scars, rests a single thought: _not pained enough_.

Yamato leaves the two of them behind, refusing to spare so much as a glance back.

  
  


#

  
  


The cold hard facts of the matter don't hit Yamato until several hours later as he lounges on the futon back home in his pity pajamas, TV droning on with some drama and a bowl of popcorn in his lap. When they do, they hit him with all the force of a large truck speeding down a steep hill.

He feels reasonably shitty about leaving in the middle of his shift, but it’s nothing an apology to Mitsu and a cute plush toy for Iori won’t solve. If only his other problem could be taken care of so easily.

Tsunashi Ryuunosuke returned. Here, to Okinawa. Here, where Yamato spent nearly three years waiting for a call that never came. Here, _now_ , after Yamato thought he’d finally quelled and quashed all the disappointment plaguing him like a lovesick teen.

It’s not like he’s _still_ disappointed or anything. He’s just angry, and bitter, and wants nothing to do with the man who lead him on like a naive little puppy.

Yeah, that's it. It’s like Ryuu’s the one at the wheel of the truck, driving circles around Yamato’s mangled corpse.

Actually, lying dead in the street sounds preferable to Yamato’s current predicament. If Ryuu is back, there's no way Yamato will be able to avoid him, at least not without becoming a total shut-in. The island is only so big, and it's not like Mitsuki or Iori would let him get away with it.

This fucking sucks. He’s gonna have to face Ryuu again, which means eventually coming to terms with the reality of what he did back in the shop—

Yamato shoves a handful of cold popcorn in his mouth. _That_ regret is _almost_ potent enough to overwhelm any lingering emotions. Almost isn't enough, but it does force him to set the bowl aside. He hasn't touched it for at least an hour now, which may very well be the saddest fact of all.

  
  


#

  
  


The scene waiting before him when he exits his room after a nap might make Yamato laugh if it weren’t distressing to such an outstanding degree.

Yeah, this can’t be reality either, because if it is then those luggage bags by the bookshelf and that coat hanging on the rack and the large, unfamiliar, unmistakably pricey shoes in the entryway, none of which were here before Yamato’s nap—all of those have to be real too and all of them exist in this very moment in the Izumi household and they all mean the exact same thing.

“Yamato-kun…”

His instincts yell at him to ignore the voice, but the unsympathetic expression he finds on Iori’s face and the slightly guilty one on Mitsuki’s only force him to direct his gaze in its direction to confirm what he hears with his own eyes.

Yamato feels his soul vacate his physical being.

He’s dreaming. He must be. He’ll turn around, climb back into bed, close his eyes and go back to dreaming up distorted images of happy dancing beer cans. Which are stupid and the furthest imaginable cry from his actual previous dream, but you know, anything is better than—

“Wait!”

—This.

“Yamato-san, wait. Come with me for a sec.”

The face that greets him when he turns back around belongs to none other than Mitsuki. Guilt still casts a shadow over his face, but for the moment it’s also subdued by something incomprehensible: a smile.

It’s strained, but it’s a smile, alright, probably there in an attempt to subdue _him._  Yamato bristles as he takes a step back into the doorway, fully intent on retreating to his room, but Mitsuki’s not about to let him run. He throws his hand between the doors before Yamato gets a chance to close them, throws them open and worms his way inside. The _clack_ as he pulls them shut rings in his ears like a death sentence.

He silently considers this, and comes to the decision that seeing Ryuu in the house was the death sentence and Mitsuki trapping him in his own room, the nail in the coffin.

“Listen,” he starts quietly as he leans against the wall, like Yamato has any other choice but to do just that. “He’s only here for a couple weeks, give or take a few days. His place will be ready soon, he just needs—”

“‘Only a couple weeks’? Well, that changes everything,” Yamato interjects, unconcerned with volume control. A part of Yamato hopes Ryuu hears the sarcasm. Yamato crashes onto his bed, folds his arms behind his head and stretches out, waiting for Mitsuki to continue despite Yamato’s obvious reluctance.

Mitsuki shifts his weight, agitation visible in the set of his mouth. “He doesn’t have anywhere else to go right now.”

“I do. Back to sleep.”

“Y _amato-san._ ”

It’d be nice if Mitsuki’s concern about Yamato’s reaction to this whole situation was as great as, say, his concerns about Iori graduating this year—which is to say, so minimal they’re practically nonexistent.

Yamato rolls over onto his side, placing himself face to face with the wall. “Goodbye, Mitsu,” he enunciates clearly, cutting off any further attempts at conversation.

It’s childish (definitely rude) but Yamato’s dealt with too many surprises today to care at present about whatever thoughts are running through Mitsuki’s head when he vacates the room at last, leaving Yamato to bury himself under his blanket, a makeshift shield that doesn’t quite manage to block out the deafening noise of his world turning upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “sen finish your current fics before you start another multichap” no
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sobaya_san) ✌︎('ω'✌︎ )

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY (BELATED) BIRTHDAY [KEN](https://twitter.com/glitchgoat)!! I'M A FEW DAYS LATE WITH THIS BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!!
> 
> half of this was beta'd by [ashie](https://twitter.com/CelineJules) and [april](https://twitter.com/Frubunny) THANK U BOTH!!
> 
> if you don't know what umibe/harukaze no etranger is, i Highly suggest you go read it!! it's one of my favorite manga: beautifully illustrated, heartfelt, and warms the soul even when things get rough!! its also ongoing, please support it!! ;;
> 
> also tho...ryuuyama...please consider ryuuyama. if i can make even one person consider ryuuyama with this, i'll probably maybe yeah definitely die happy. 
> 
> come cry over ryuuyama (and other yamato ships, mostly yamasou, but mostly yamato, and gaku) with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sobaya_san) ;;


End file.
